by Lori Borrill
“I’m not afraid of anything,” she said defensively.
“Then prove it. Do the job you’ve been sent here to do. Stop worrying about what day you can have your nails done and start thinking about what it’s like to earn a living the hard way. Maybe in the process, you’ll discover the joy of real accomplishment.”
She raised a hand to slap him but he grabbed her wrist midair. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
“You ass!”
She waited for him to deny it, to argue or scold some more. And when he didn’t she snatched her hand from his grip, turned and stormed out the door, leaving Marc hot and furious—and all be damned, aroused.
Moving back to his desk, he collapsed in his chair and placed his head in his hands. He had no idea what he’d just done. She’d pushed too many buttons and in the midst of it he’d snapped, rattling off a load of bias and assumptions he wasn’t even sure had merit. Rachel had been right. He didn’t know anything about her other than what he’d caught through hearsay and rumor. For all he knew, he could have been completely off base and owing her an apology.
But his gut told him he’d hit the nail on the head. He could see it in her eyes, just as he could see in her eyes that no one had ever talked to her that way before. He’d stormed down a road never traveled, and where it led, he had no idea.
He only knew for certain that somewhere in all this, the repercussions wouldn’t be good.
RACHEL RACED TOWARD HER SUITE, holding back tears that she wasn’t sure were from anger, hurt or humiliation. Maybe a mix of all three. She only knew for sure that she didn’t want to be here. She wanted to be back at home, in the safety of her estate, among friends and family and people who cared. Not here with that ogre who had the nerve to fondle her body then toss her aside like trash.
Rushing out of the main building, she stepped into the warm morning sun and sucked in the scent of clean air, every bitter word of Marc’s running through her head while his kiss still lingered on her lips.
How dare he presume to know her? How dare he presume to know what the judge wanted her to learn from all this?
That judge hadn’t wanted her to learn anything. He’d only wanted the fifteen minutes of fame he’d get by sentencing Hollywood’s favorite bad girl. With a whole generation of celebrity princesses making headlines with their less-than-legal antics, he’d decided to make an example of one of them. Rachel was the unlucky one to draw the short straw.
But even as the thought sped through her mind, she admitted how childish it sounded, which only frustrated her more.
Stepping quickly across the grounds toward her suite, she admitted she wasn’t as angry as she was embarrassed. She’d made a bold pass at a man who ended up telling her off as if she were a schoolgirl. And despite the humiliation, what ultimately pushed her to tears was the acceptance that much of what he’d said was true. She was spoiled and afraid. She’d never worked a day in her life, and the things she had tried had been colossal failures.
What if she failed at this, too?
No one could have faulted her for not being able to act. Her mother’s career was a hard one to follow. Everyone in Hollywood knew that. Her clothing line bombed, her signature perfume was met with tepid sales. She’d tried to boost the ratings on her reality TV show by doing the spread for Hush. All she’d ended up with was a cancelled first season and semi-naked pictures all over the world.
Now, she was faced with the simplest task of all. Cleaning up a messy room. Children in grade school do it. What kind of a hit would it slap to her ego if she failed at that, too?
Rounding the back of the building, she made her way through her private terrace and toward the French doors that opened to the living room of her suite, her chin quivering and her eyes blurry with tears. Oh, God, she was a mess. She prayed that no one with a camera was near.
Holding herself together for the last few steps, she closed the terrace gate behind her, bursting into sobs the moment she stepped inside and closed the door to her suite.
Stefan instantly came running. “Rachel, what happened?”
Collapsing on the couch, she buried her face in her hands and cried, too upset for words, and not knowing where she would start if she had them.
Her angry heart wanted to spew out all kinds of horrible things about Marc and this resort. She wanted to tell Stefan that Marc was mean and cruel, that he’d humiliated her. She wanted to get on the phone to her father, ask him to send a car to take her out of here.
But her head only heard the bratty child in all those words, the one she’d grown tired of before she’d even shown up at this resort. While Marc might have been cruel, he’d told it like it was, and the truth hurt. It didn’t mean that she’d forgive him, but it did mean she had no basis to cry foul.
Taking a seat next to her, Stefan put his arm around her shoulder and whispered calming words. She didn’t need to tell him what Marc had said to know how he would react. Stefan would gasp and fume and tell her Marc had no right. He’d waltz back to Marc’s office and tell him off. And in the end, he would perpetuate the same sense of entitlement that got her here in the first place.
Shaking off his questions, she asked for a tissue and a glass of water. Her throat hurt and her eyes stung, but somewhere in it all, answers began to form.
This was a situation she needed to handle herself. Calling for her father or sending Stefan on a rampage would only prove every mean word that Marc had uttered. Instead, what she needed to do was shove them all back in his face.
And Rachel knew there was only one way to do that.
“There now,” Stefan said, handing her a glass of water and two tissues. “Drink this and tell me what’s got you so upset.”
She set the water aside and used the tissue to dab her eyes. “It’s not important,” she said.
“Don’t be silly. If it’s got you in tears, it’s important.”
Rising from the couch, she wrapped her arms around her chest, feeling chilly and unsure but in desperate need of proving a point, as much to Marc as to herself. Over the past few years, she’d lost everything, including her pride. Now, the only thing she had left was her stubborn will to fight, which was exactly what she’d do. She wasn’t going to leave this place on her first day. It would only feed more fodder to the tabloids that were anxious for her to fail all over again. And she wasn’t going to leave this place giving Marc the satisfaction of knowing that he’d stood his ground and won. She needed to prove him wrong, prove all of them wrong.
For the first time in her life, Rachel was going to win, if only in this battle between her and the man who infuriated and excited her all at once. And if she failed at this, too, at least she’d know she’d gone down swinging.
Stefan picked up her glass and shoved it toward her. “Come on. Drink this. Tell me what happened and we’ll fix it together.”
“There’s nothing for you to fix,” she finally said. “This is something I need to handle on my own.”
Then she turned and eyed Stefan with all the seriousness she could muster. “I want you to take your planner and all your things and go home.”
4
“OH, MY, ARE YOU…?”
Brett looked up from a stack of achingly boring résumés to find a tanned and beautiful blonde standing over him, one hand on her hip and the other pointing a finger.
“You are!” she gushed. Her sexy smile widened. “Brett Strauss, right?”
His interest piqued. Fashion-model tall, she had long, wavy hair, full, pink lips and a nice curvy figure that was sweet on the eyes. Slim legs teased out of a knee-length skirt, but there was nothing conservative about the pale green T-shirt she wore with it. Two very shapely breasts poured over the low-cut neckline, taking the simple ensemble from average to extremely interesting in one low scoop.
“That’s me.” He brushed the résumés aside, curious to know where he might have met her. While his travels had brought him in contact with countless women, he couldn’t imagine forgett
ing this one. She was the stuff memories were made of.
She took a seat at his table, uninvited but welcome nonetheless. Brett had spent the past hour in the café slamming Red Bulls trying to conjure up interest in the pile of paperwork in front of him. Needing to fill an opening in the pro shop, he’d left it to their office manager to place an ad in the paper, forgetting to tell the woman he wasn’t exactly a résumé kind of guy. He’d preferred that the applicants simply stop by, figuring he’d know a good candidate when he saw one. Instead, he was stuck with a pile of dribble that told him practically nothing.
Shoving the whole task aside for a lush and curvy blonde? No brainer.
“I saw you down in Delray,” she explained. “It must have been three—no, four years ago.”
He grinned. “You follow tennis.”
She gave him a sultry smile that sped straight to his privates. “I follow you. I mean, I did until you disappeared from the circuit. You played an amazing match down there against Todd Florence. That last set went six-four, didn’t it?”
“Six-three, but who’s counting?”
Setting her brown leather clutch on his stack of papers, she crossed her legs and got comfortable. “I thought you were going to make it all the way that year, but then you lost in the semifinals and poof, you were gone. What happened?”
He pointed to his shoulder. “Torn rotator.”
She gasped. “Bad?”
“Threw me into early retirement.”
She made a poor-baby face as if she might tear his shirt off and try to kiss it better. He wouldn’t mind at all if she tried.
“I didn’t catch your name,” he said.
“Sorry.” She held out a hand. “Margaret O’Dell, Brett Strauss Fan Extraordinaire.”
He accepted it with a grin he hoped didn’t look too eager. He hadn’t had one of those in years. When his tennis career ended on the brink of mainstream success, he’d been shocked by how quickly the general public forgot him. Ranked a few points higher, he might have landed a job in broadcasting, but his shoulder blew a couple years too soon. In the end, his life had worked out well, though. Marc had come up with the idea to partner in this resort, and with Brett’s career suddenly up for grabs, starting up a golf and tennis resort seemed to be the perfect answer.
But he sure did miss the groupies.
“Margaret, nice to meet you.”
Dimitri, his server, approached the table. “Can I get you something here?”
Margaret touched a hand to her chest and glanced around the table. “Oh, I didn’t mean to interrupt. You’re obviously in the middle of something—”
“In the middle of something boring,” Brett said. “How about a drink or a bite to eat?”
“I’ll, um…how about a glass of white wine.” She glanced down at her watch. “It’s not too early for a drink, is it?”
“Not too early at all.” He gestured to Dimitri. “A glass of wine and I’ll take a beer.” The man shuffled off and he turned back to Margaret. “So what brings you to the resort?”
“A long overdue vacation.”
He glanced at her wedding finger. Bare. “Are you here with a friend?”
“Just me, myself and I.” She glanced at his wedding finger. “How about you? Are you here for business or pleasure?”
“I own the place.”
He loved saying that, especially when it got him the impressed look on a sexy woman’s face, much like the one he was getting now.
“So this is what you’ve been doing since retirement.” Their drinks arrived and she held up her wine for a toast. “Here’s to life after tennis.”
He tapped her glass with his beer, wondering if that life after tennis would include a few fun-filled days with a hot and all-alone blonde.
“Maybe you could show me around the place.” She flicked a brow. “I’d love to know where the excitement is out here in the desert.”
Oh, he could definitely point her to the excitement. It was a short drive to his condo.
He watched as she brought the rim of her glass to those plump, luscious lips and took a dainty sip of her wine, all the while trying to keep the glee from flashing on his face like a bright neon sign. When was the last time a beautiful single woman showed up at the resort looking for some fun? Okay, so maybe it had only been a few weeks, but that didn’t temper his joy. Unlike his brother, who seemed to be waiting for that one special someone to come along, Brett liked his women in fast and frequent multipacks. And if that shapely body or those dark steamy eyes were any indication, he’d just found the perfect candidate for his flavor of the month.
They spent the next half hour getting to know each other. She told him she was in advertising and on the brink of job burnout, here for as many weeks as it took to dig up the will to go back—which she admitted might be never. She’d mentioned a couple accounts she’d worked on, companies he’d never heard of, but that didn’t seem to bother either of them. In the course of having their drinks, it became pretty evident their interest in each other wasn’t at all work-related.
He was about to suggest plans for a date when his cell phone rang. It was Rachel, the other beautiful and single woman to grace his resort this week. Though, unlike Margaret, Rachel’s situation put her strictly off-limits for anything more than casual friendship. While Brett wasn’t the most discriminating man, he knew better than to dip a toe into the sticky quagmire that was Rachel and her arrangement with the resort. But she was still fun to look at, nonetheless.
Man, he loved his job.
“Excuse me for a moment.” He flipped open the phone. “Rachel?”
“Are you busy?” Rachel asked.
He glanced at Margaret. “For a while, why?”
MARGARET WORKED HARD to contain herself while she listened to Brett’s half of his conversation. Could it be so perfect that the Rachel on the other end was Rachel Winston? If so, this was even better than she expected.
She took a sip of her wine to stifle a wide grin. God, men were easy. After weeks of investigation, she’d decided that the best way to gain the inside scoop on Rachel’s sentence was to cozy up to the resort’s notorious playboy co-owner. Though the idea offered no guarantees, she figured it was worth a try. Never in her dreams did she expect it would go this smoothly. Apparently, when her friend over at Tennis World magazine had said to hit him with cleavage, she hadn’t been kidding.
Thank you, low-cut T-shirt.
She watched as Brett chatted, wondering how much information she’d be able to pull from the man over the next few weeks. She’d promised her editor at the National Star plenty of reportable dirt if he’d only foot the bill for the room and not ask questions. The man was well aware that hungry new reporters would do anything for a story, and when she’d given him her high-level plan, he’d smiled knowing exactly what that anything would include.
Not that hopping into bed with Brett Strauss could be considered a hardship. The man was drop-dead gorgeous with his spiky blond hair and bone-melting dimples, not to mention that body. Obviously, retirement hadn’t kept him from the gym. He looked as buff in person as he did in those years-old Internet photos she’d drummed up.
Nope, getting naked with this man definitely wouldn’t be a problem, as long as his lips were as loose as the fly on his jeans. Margaret needed to be Brett’s new confidante, and as long as she could keep him talking, the rest would be a picnic.
“Sorry for the interruption,” he said, snapping the phone shut.
She flashed a sexy, woe-is-me pout. “You have a girlfriend.”
“Rachel? No, she’s just a friend. Purely platonic.” He gave her an appreciative glance. “I was actually wondering if you’d like to have dinner with me.”
“I’d love to. How about tonight?”
He checked his watch. “I’ve got some things to take care of, but I should be done around six. How does that sound?”
She smiled and rose from the table, holding out a hand to the man who was about to help burst her c
areer wide-open.
“It sounds like this trip will be everything I’d hoped.”
RACHEL OPENED THE DOOR of her suite, relieved to find it was Brett who had knocked and not another reporter posing as room service. Having Stefan around to run interference was just another on the long list of things she’d somehow taken for granted, and it wasn’t the first time today that she’d second-guessed her decision to send him home.
Brett walked through the door. “Hey, what’s up?”
“Tell me you know something about computers,” she begged.
He shrugged. “I know a little, I guess. What do you need?”
She stepped over to the desk Stefan had set up and picked up the instructions he’d left. “I can’t get into this thing. It’s password protected, but the stupid password doesn’t work. Any idea how to get around that?”
He balked. “For that you’d need a hacker.” He glanced around the room. “What about Stefan? Has he tried?”
“He’s gone back to L.A.”
“When’s he coming back?”
“He’s not.”
He stared at her quizzically.
“I really don’t need him while I’m here.”
She’d tried to throw out the remark casually, as if it was totally normal for her to spend four weeks working as a maid in a resort a hundred miles from home without Stefan by her side. Apparently, Brett knew her better than she’d realized. “Stefan’s gone?”
“I’m a grown woman. I don’t need a babysitter.”
The argument hadn’t worked on her parents ten years ago, but she hoped it worked on Brett now. If for no other reason than to help convince herself, as well, because right now she was feeling about as self-sufficient as a three-year-old.
“I just need help getting into my computer.” She held out the note Stefan had stuck to the screen then took a seat at the desk. “Here’s the password he left me, but it doesn’t work.” Clicking the cursor into the space provided, she typed out Birgit42. “See? Birgit42. It’s his mother’s name and the year she was born, but it’s not working.”
“It’s Brigit42,” he said, reading from the note. “You typed Birgit.”
